


Make Me Feel, Make Me Hurt, Make Me Whole

by sdk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Harry/Draco, Bisexual Hermione Granger, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, F/F, Genderplay, Masturbation, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-05 20:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18373280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/pseuds/sdk
Summary: Hermione and Pansy fall in love.





	1. Make Me Feel

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of 15 ficlets in three arcs (chapters) written for the Janelle Monae lyrics challenge table at femslashficlets on Dreamwidth. Each prompt is used as a header for each ficlet.

**Am I a sinner with my skirt on the ground?**

Hermione doesn't do this.

Hermione doesn't go to a pub just for a drink by herself on a cool summer night. She definitely doesn't go to pubs like this, full of anonymous women dancing and laughing, flirting and smiling (grinding and kissing in dark corners, in shadows, in plain view in the middle of the dance floor). Her breath doesn't catch when she sees a familiar bob of black hair swish at the bar, and she isn't drawn to that woman, doesn't follow in her footsteps, doesn't gaze at her lips, at her neck (at her trouser-clad thighs, the narrow shape of her hip) and wonder what she tastes like. 

She doesn't take this woman's hand, not this woman, not ever, and let herself be led outside to a dark alley, the only light from the almost-full moon and a flickering street lamp across the street. She doesn't let her skirt fall to the ground, let her knickers follow after, let her thighs be spread, let fingers stroke her until she's so wet that they slip right in. She doesn't grasp on tightly and thrust her hips, and ride those fingers through sloppy kisses and desperate moans, begging and pleading and chasing that high. 

Hermione doesn't come with Pansy's name on her lips, loud and clear in the crisp night air. 

No, she doesn't do this at all. 

 

**She'll have you falling harder than a Sunday in September**

It's supposed to be just the once. And maybe not just the once at all, but how is she supposed to resist the simmering look in Granger's eyes? Her innocence just begging to be corrupted? Pansy Parkinson isn't a saint. 

But touching her unlocks something unexpected, something Pansy doesn't dare to name. Some kind of ache that barely dulls when Granger comes, Pansy's name on her lips, Pansy's name echoing in the night, a scream and a sigh. Satisfaction spreads through her, that deep contentment that only happens in times such as these, but for once, it isn't enough. Not nearly so. 

Again, they meet in that dark alley. Pansy slides her fingers between Granger's legs and watches her fall apart. 

And again, with Granger's tentative touch, the want in her eyes, two simple words breathed, "Teach Me."

Pansy breaks her rule that night and follows Granger home. She comes, writhing and breathless in the middle of the bed, Granger's mouth between her thighs, the smell of her everywhere. Books and woodsy pine and something sweet and undefined. Something addicting. 

It's supposed to be just the once, a revisited memory, maybe. 

Pansy should've known better. 

 

**Come, let me kiss you right there wake you up like sunrise**

The first morning Pansy stays over, Hermione isn't certain it's on purpose or not. They come back to her home as they have done for weeks. Come back to her bed and pleasure each other to exhaustion, until they lie there, panting, naked, sweaty, strewn sheets tangled around their ankles, legs tangled with one another in their sprawl. Hermione magicks the ceiling fan on, sighing with the cool breeze against her skin and waits for Pansy to roll out of bed and dress. Hermione never asks her to stay, but she does think about how nice it would be, one of these days, to wake up next to her, to turn into her, to nuzzle her neck. To argue over which of them would get out of bed and make breakfast. She keeps these fantasies to herself, though. Too domestic for Pansy. Try to enjoy it for what it is, Hermione tells herself. She's told herself the same since the start of this thing, whatever kind of thing it is. Enjoy it, because it can't last. Not really.

But Pansy doesn't roll out of bed. Instead she turns into Hermione. Nuzzles her neck. And promptly falls asleep until sunrise.

When she wakes, she stretches skinny arms above her head, and Hermione stares at the delicate arch of her neck as she yawns her good morning. Hermione blinks. Blinks again. Disbelief must be written all over her face when Pansy looks at her and blinks right back. Hermione waits of the surprise, the disorientation, the questions. Where am I? Why am I still here? But they don't come. Instead Pansy dips down and kisses her lightly, just a glance, just a brush, nothing more, and says, "Tell me you have food in the house. I'm starved."

They don't argue over who cooks. Pansy makes herself home in Hermione's kitchen to Hermione's secret relief. She's been known to burn eggs more often than not. 

 

**You better know what you're fighting for**

When they talk about it, they lie awake on the bed side by side, in the dark space between night and day. Hermione stares at the ceiling and trances the pattern of a spiderwebbed crack on the back of Pansy's hand. Hermione doesn't need to hear Pansy's confessions, but she listens, patient and certain that time will stretch, slower and slower, until Pansy has said all she needs to. 

Hermione remembers the trials all too well. She remembers the guilty bloom of satisfaction when Pansy had been charged with aiding the enemy and then the spreading horror that took residence when she finally realized Pansy was just a child, a scared, broken child, whose only crime was crying out in a desperation to be safe. Hermione understood that years before she followed Pansy out into that alleyway. She understood that all children couldn't be expected to be brave. 

Pansy had been sentenced; five years of limited magic and a leash worn around her wrist that kept her tethered to London where the Wizengamot could keep their beady little eyes on her. Hermione remembers Ron saying she got off easy. Hermione remembers not saying a word otherwise. So she listens to Pansy's quiet words in the dark space between night and day. She listens to the fear, the regret, and squeezes Pansy's hand when the words won't come. Pansy doesn't ever say she's sorry, but when she finishes with a raspy deep breath expelled into the quiet room, Hermione tells her, "I forgive you." 

 

**These eyes long to make you a perfect work of art**

Pansy's moved in. They're living together. At least Hermione thinks so. There's been no discussion of this fact, just one night Pansy stayed over and never left again. 

Though she's obviously _left_ at some point or another because more of her things show up every few days. A stray throw pillow here. Facial creams and lotions, magical and Muggle, slowly taking over the vanity. Extra clothes in the wardrobe, so much that Hermione secretly expanded it with wizard's space rather than say anything. She doesn't know why she doesn't say anything. Hermione isn't the type of person who doesn't say anything. She makes lists and charts pros and cons and chews on every angle of a thing, coming at a decision from all sides until she's confident of the right way forward. 

There are perks, and it's not just the sex at all hours of the day, on top the dining table, over the cluttered vanity, against the (thankfully reinforced) wardrobe. Pansy also cooks. And not just eggs, but loads of things, meat pies and roasted veg, pastas and curries, buttery pastries and sweet puddings. Hermione's kitchen has never been more well used, well loved. 

And yet still, it's this unsaid thing lying in the dark of Hermione's stomach like a Confusing Concoction slowly absorbed.

But when she catches Pansy hanging a piece of art, an abstract feminine form, all long curved lines of shoulders and thighs, soft blues and with a hint of red, something Hermione never would have bought herself, but somehow fits perfectly in the space next to said dining table, it's the ideal opening. Pansy looks at her, face open and pleased, but Hermione knows her well enough now to see the faint nervousness in the pull of her lips. Hermione opens her mouth and the only words that will come are, "I love it." 

Pansy dashes over and grabs her face with smooth palms and kisses her so sweetly it leaves Hermione breathless for days.

 

**So dress me up I'll like it better if we both pretend**

Sometimes Pansy likes to wear a dress. She paints her lips a deep red, slips on a shimmering black strapless number with a slit all the way up her thigh, and steps into six-inch spiky heels that she can only walk comfortably in with a stabilizing spell. She enjoys the way Granger's eyes go wide, the way her gaze clings to that bare hint of thigh, how Granger tends to hang back, walk behind her, and watch the swish of Pansy's hips as they head out the door to a restaurant, a pub…or just straight to the bedroom. Granger makes her keep the dress on as they fall into bed and her hand slides all the way up, tracing the slit, and over to Pansy's cunt. Her breath always hitches in a note of surprise when she finds Pansy pantiless and wet with want. She strokes Pansy to completion before she disappears beneath the clingy black fabric and her tongue takes over. Pansy wraps her legs around Granger's back, her heels clicking together as she rocks into Granger's mouth and comes to bliss again.

But most of the time, Pansy reaches for trousers, a well-tailored suit or sometimes, when she's feeling particularly playful, loose jeans that fall to her hips. She likes to wear her cock with them, likes to look down at the stretched denim at her crotch, likes to palm it, squeeze it. Sometimes Granger will find her like that, staring into a mirror, cupping her cock. Sometimes she finds Pansy with her hand down her pants, stroking it, watching the way her knuckles move under her jeans, her hips rocking almost imperceptibly with the stroke of her fist. Granger steps up behind her, her chin resting on Pansy's shoulder. Her eyes smolder, meeting Pansy's in the mirror. Sometimes she takes over, sliding her hand around and beneath the loosened waistband. Pansy's hips go faster. Her eyelids grow heavy, but she doesn't stop staring in the mirror, at the stroke of Granger's hand, at the flick of her tongue over her lips. They stay like this until Pansy can't stand it any longer and she turns around and pushes Granger to the bed and fucks her all the way, deep as her cock will go. She can almost feel the unbearable heat, the way Granger clamps down when she shudders so beautifully beneath her. 

Sometimes in the middle of the night with only the shine of the moonlight in the window lighting the room with its muted glow, Pansy wants to ask. Sometimes she does, with her face pressed between Granger's shoulder blades, voice muffled, lips against skin. 

"Dress or trousers?" 

And Granger simply answers, "Yes."


	2. Make Me Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy and Hermione fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Additional Warning: There is mention of Pansy and an OFC, which brushes up against infidelity, depending on how you define infidelity, but I don't believe it's strong enough to add the tag. YMMV so I wanted to mention it!

**Crown on my head but the world on my shoulder**

It doesn't start with a fight. 

There are fights, of course. Loud pot-banging fights over silly things like socks on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink, tiny mundane tasks that are as simple as a spell to solve, and yet Pansy has always been pants at household charms. Quiet simmering fights full of passive aggressive snark (Pansy) and tense wordless glares (Granger) over not being invited to Potter Weasley weekly dinners, and then not wanting to be dragged along to Potter Weasley weekly dinners, and then there are the nights with Draco and Millie where Granger perches on a pub stool in an awkward stilted silence that spreads throughout the group until Pansy gives up and Granger makes no secret of her relief at returning home.

Those fights end with them in bed, more often than not. Granger's rule. Not that they shag away their problems, but that they don't fall asleep angry. And the best way Pansy knows how to get over her anger fast and quick is to lose herself in Granger, marveling at the beauty of making her fall apart. 

It doesn't start with a fight.

It starts with an "I love you."

Hermione breathes it out one night, six months in to their little experiment. She's just come, loud and long, for the third time that evening, and Pansy is busy feeling rather pleased with herself that she almost misses it. That whisper. That ghost of a whisper. That ghost of a whisper that hits Pansy's chest hard. She flops on her back and stares at the ceiling and pretends she didn't hear but Pansy forgets how impossible it is to fool herself.

It starts with an itch just under her skin. A throb of restlessness that goes through her the nights Hermione stays late at the office. The nights she has to herself and feels like a stranger in this home that she didn't build but marked, here and there, like a cat claiming territory. She starts going out every night, meeting Draco for drinks, meeting Millie for coffee, and then on her own, at the pub where she met Hermione, met the real Hermione, met the whole Hermione for the very first time.

It starts with a thrill when a woman smiles at her, that smile that just invites Pansy to conquer. She's everything Hermione is not. Sharp where Hermione is soft, wicked where Hermione is sweet. They drink, they dance, and Pansy touches her hips and her waist and feels the power of this woman between her hands. This woman, this not-Hermione, presses herself close and parts her lips and Pansy inhales her sharp breath, feels the power go through her like a lightning bolt. She wipes a tear from her eye… where did it come from, this pesky stray tear? … And leaves this woman's mouth, her pulsing power, and flees as fast as her boots will carry her.

It starts with a bag hidden in the back of the wardrobe packed with two changes of clothes and enough galleons for a week at the Leaky. Pansy stares at that bag in the moments before Hermione Floos home from work. She touches it in the morning while Hermione is in the shower, feels the course fabric against her palm. She breathes freedom in before shutting the wardrobe closed. 

It ends when Pansy leaves the bag behind.

**But I need to know if the world says it's time to go**

Pansy leaves and Hermione's heart breaks in tiny little shatters all over the floor. In the days that follow, she walks from room to room, dragging her hand across the bed, across the empty vanity, across the unused dining room table, across the empty corner of the couch where a throw pillow used to be. She finds a half-used tube of facial cream in the bottom cabinet under the sink and holds it to her chest and cries. 

Pansy leaves and Hermione's heart breaks in tiny little shatters that stab her insides. A rage coils low in her belly and she doesn't know how to douse it. She walks to the balcony and screams at the stars until her throat is raw and scratchy and even water hurts to swallow. She writes angry letters full of _Liar!_ and _Toxic!_ and _How could you? How could you?_ until the ink smears with her tears and she takes the parchment and tears it into tiny little pieces that match her heart. 

Pansy leaves and Hermione's heart breaks in tiny little shatters that dissolve in her bloodstream, leaving a gaping wound in the middle of her chest. She wakes up, goes to the bathroom, brushes her teeth with the single toothbrush left in the cup. She walks to the kitchen, breaks an egg into the skillet and watches the edges crisp up until they burn. She Floos to work and an alarm blares as she passes security, forgetting to get her wand checked at the desk. She's sent home sick after sitting in a meeting on justice reforms in which she says nary a word nor hears a word spoken. She thinks about ordering take away. Instead she falls asleep on the couch with a book on her chest, open to the same page she started on. 

Pansy leaves and Hermione's heart breaks in tiny little shatters. She grabs them up the best she can, holding them together with the will of her fist and tells herself, "I'm fine." 

**Little rough around the edges, but I keep it smooth**

In the beginning, the relief is great. Pansy sets herself up in a small flat on the other side of town as far away as her tether will let her. She wakes up to the taste of freedom and tries to ignore the bitterness in the back of her throat. Days pass with an unexpected easiness. No one to be accountable too. No one to argue with. No one taking up her time. 

The regret builds inside her so slowly that it's days before she feels the weight of it. 

__

__

(No one to touch her. No one to kiss her shoulders. No one to whisper breathlessly in her ear. No one to caress and kiss. No one… She brushes those thoughts away as fast as she can. Pansy's never found it hard to find a lover, if she wished for one. This maudlin rubbish is useless.) 

Millie comes over and they spend an evening on the couch with the wireless, listening to the Harpies v Falcons match, Millie wildly cheering for the latter, but the Harpies are unstoppable. When the announcer bellows "Ginny Weasley has caught the snitch!" Pansy beams, thinking how happy Granger must be. Her head falls to Millie's shoulder and she squeezes her knee, gently massaging until… 

"Bloody hell, Pans?" Millicent yanks Pansy out of her reverie. She snaps straight as a rod, hand stinging as if it had been slapped. 

"I…" Pansy says the only words that make sense, though they don't make sense at all. "I thought you were someone else." 

Millicent's face fills with a kind of pity that makes Pansy's eyes well with tears. "You should go," she barks before fleeing to her bedroom and locking herself inside until she hears the roar of the Floo. 

Her rubbish bin fills with half-written owls. Explanations crumpled up, apologies torn to pieces; nothing is good enough. Nothing can capture this horrible ache in her body, growing too big to fit inside. 

She counts down the weeks until she'll be free from the leash holding her to this prison. "I'll leave the country," she says, marking the days. "I can start over." She says it so often, she's almost convinced herself when the day actually arrives. She marches into the Ministry, head held high, ignoring the sneer of the security guard clearing her for entry. 

Courtroom Ten. Spell cast over her. Her whole body tingles as her wand and wrist show the coiled tether and she feels the suppression again, as heavy and heartbreaking as the day it was put upon her. In the blink of an eye, the coil explodes into a starburst, in blinding light that forces her to shut her eyes, but she's free. She's free. She's finally free. Freedom leaks from her eyes and her lips and her whole face. For the first time, Pansy doesn't care who sees, doesn't bother trying to hide it. 

She opens her eyes and Granger's in the gallery. Her heart stops. 

**Mess me up, yeah, but no one does it better**

Three nights ago in the darkness of her bedroom, sprawled in the center on the bed because there's no one else that needs room, Hermione touches herself. She conjures up faceless women, beautiful strangers, narrow hips, the gentle slope of a shoulder, the salty taste of inner thighs. She tries men, too, tall, beefy shoulders and pale windswept hair, forearms and the unbuckling of a belt. But Pansy hovers always; there's no way to shut her out. Hermione comes with the memory of the anguish on Pansy's face before she Floo'd away with her shrunken possessions, a bag in each fist. She curls in on herself, hand trapped between her thighs, and weeps. 

Three days later, Courtroom Ten. Hermione marvels at the joy on Pansy's face. She knows this is what she'll see now, alone in her bed at night. She can't decide if it's somehow better or very much worse. 

She tries to slip out after the ceremony unseen, but Pansy catches up to her in the doorway. A touch of her shoulder, pulled away hastily. 

"I…" Pansy says. Her eyes dart up and down before landing on Hermione's. "Thank you. For coming." 

"Do you want to talk?" Hermione's afraid she'll say yes. Afraid she'll say no. She can't decide which answer is more frightening. But Pansy nods, and that's the end of it. Hermione takes her to her office because she can't think of anywhere else to go where they can be shut away from the world for a minute or two. Home is too painful. 

Pansy's never been in her office before. That surprising fact hits Hermione as soon as they walk in the door and Pansy walks slowly through the room, brushing her fingers against the edge of the desk, pausing on a picture of Harry and Ron perched in one corner. _That used to be you,_ Hermione wants to say, but the words won't come. Instead she stares through the window, spelled to show the grey overcast morning in London. 

"I'm leaving the city." 

Hermione's carefully patched-together heart cracks open. 

"When?" 

"Tomorrow, if I can manage it." 

Hermione fights against the tears, but they burst through, irreverent to what she wants. Pansy's blurry form dashes closer and then her palms hold Hermione's cheeks and she whispers, "Shh, shh," and presses their foreheads together. Hermione reaches out to push her away, but instead claws at her, yanking her close. They kiss through bitter, salty tears. Through Pansy's breathless apologies and Hermione's frantic and soft, "Please, please." 

"Can I?" Pansy's hand moves to her chest, against the fluttering beat of her tender heart. 

Hermione should say no. There isn't a universe in existence where she could. "Yes." 

Hermione knows she should slow down, take her time, imprint every inch of Pansy onto her body, but her hunger is too great, her need overwhelming. Torn clothes, ripped out of the way. Restless hands, grabbing, stroking. It's not enough. It's never going to be enough. Pansy thrusts inside her with her fingers, head cradled between her breasts, and Hermione comes crying, laid across her desk, her meticulously neat files scattered everywhere. There isn't time to bask. There's only time to flip them over, bury herself between Pansy's thighs and taste the trembling sweetness of her, swallow her down. 

After, on the floor. After, sprawled out together. The familiarity of it all makes the ache inside her flare brightly. 

"I shouldn't have let you go so easily," Hermione whispers. "Why did I let you go so easily?" 

"It wouldn't have mattered. I would have gnawed my way out." Pansy curls up on her side fetal-like, facing Hermione. Touching her cheek. "I would have with anyone." 

She kisses Hermione lightly, just a glance, just a brush, nothing more, and rolls to her feet, carefully putting herself back together. Hermione wishes her giant brain could come up with something to say, something to keep Pansy here, in this place, just for a little longer. But time moves, as it always does, a relentless current that she's powerless to fight. 

"Will you owl me?" Hermione manages to ask. "Where you are? Just… sometimes?" 

Sadness colors Pansy's eyes, but there's a steely resolve Hermione's never noticed before in the set of her jaw, even in the gentle upturn of her lips. Neither anguish, nor joy, but certainty. 

She nods. "Take care of yourself, Granger." 

Pansy leaves and Hermione's heart breaks in tiny little shatters. But she knows she can heal. 


	3. Make Me Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Pansy fall together.

**Dance in the trees paint mysteries**

"Tell me, when you look up at the sky, do you feel me looking there too?" Draco asks, affecting a high-pitched heavily-accented sing-song voice until Hermione kicks his shin under the table and he yips back to normal. He infuriates Hermione to the point where she often daydreams about the day she slapped him when they were children and the delicious crack his skin made against her palm. 

He's also a balm in a way Hermione can't articulate. They've been sharing a meal weekly since a month after Pansy left when Draco Floo'd her up to yell at her for driving his best mate away and Hermione yelled right back at his inability to convince her to stay, and it turned into sandwiches and tea and moaning over their shared misery. Harry sometimes joins them. Hermione suspects they've started shagging in secret, but she doesn't want to pry. At least that's what she tells herself. But in truth, she's not certain she's ready to be happy for them. 

"That isn't what she wrote," Hermione says uselessly. The owl from Pansy is in her pocket. She fondles it now, running her fingers over worn edges. But she decides to keep it private this time. "She's having a lovely time. I'm certain you'll hear from her soon."

She waits until she's home again to take it out, a small polaroid slipping free from between its pages. Pansy has taken to carrying a Muggle camera on her travels and occasionally sends Hermione snaps. This one is of her under the hot Parisian sun, her black hair swinging out from beneath a floppy straw hat. It's grown out a bit, Pansy's hair, nearly reaching her shoulders now. Wide black sunglasses obscure her eyes, but her red lips are spread wide in a smile that Hermione knows makes her eyes sparkle. 

Paris. It isn't that far. Six hours by car, if Hermione could procure one. Less by wizardly means. An emergency portkey and Hermione could be there by dinner, if Leonard is manning the Ministry's transportation desk over the weekend. Leonard wouldn't look too closely at the paperwork or ask any probing questions about whatever flimsy reason Hermione comes up with on her way in. _You'd love it here, darling,_ Pansy had written. And she wasn't talking about the Eiffel Tower (though Hermione imagines that it's stunning) or even the Louvre (though Pansy waxed extensively about the galleries). She wrote about a hidden bookshop in the wizarding quarter full of rare prints and a tiny hole-in-the-wall cafe that made the strongest coffee Pansy has ever tasted, and a museum of obscure charms long gone out of fashion. _You must visit, someday!_

Pansy still calls her darling. Hermione runs her finger over the word. She imagines landing with a pop in front of Pansy's hotel, following a Point Me spell to her room, the door swinging open, her heart thumping wildly. Pansy would stand, gobsmacked, in a short but fluffy white robe, the ends of her hair curling at the collar, her long lightly tanned legs, her soft bare feet. Hermione would say, "Today is someday, isn't it?" and Pansy would snort and call her some kind of mental and pull her inside, and they'd stand their awkwardly until-- Or Pansy would pull her inside and envelope her in her arms, and say, "Oh, I've missed you," and press her forehead onto Hermione's and breathe shaky little breaths until-- Or…

Hermione sighs deeply, folds up the letter, tucks the polaroid back inside and adds Paris to Istanbul and Prague and Berlin, a neat stack of letters in a tin box on her bookcase. 

Or Pansy wouldn't be happy to see her at all.

 

**Pink like the halls of your heart**

She should have owled. Pansy stands in front of Hermione's flat, fist poised over the door, but somehow unable to knock. She's been in London all of an hour, a blurry hour of passing through customs and arranging for a room at The Leaky and stashing her bags in the rickety wardrobe of her temporary home. Apparition. The nervous-fast swing of her arms as she rushed down the alley and dashed up the stairs, and now she is here and can _not_ knock. And cursing herself for forgetting to at least glance at a mirror. Her lips are dry and she licks them in lieu of scrounging around for her lip balm. She should have owled.

But she knows why she did not. Hermione might've told her not to come and Pansy couldn't bear that. 

The door opens. Did Pansy knock? She can't remember. Hermione stands in the threshold, a wad of Muggle notes in one hand. She wears a soft brown turtleneck and her hair fans wildly around her head. The main of a lion. Pansy longs to brush her fingers through it, get tangled up in curls. Her eyes go wide, lips parting slightly, until a carefully controlled expression snaps into place.

"Is that our curry?" A seize of panic grips Pansy's chest until she realizes that's only Draco in the background. She's too relieved to ask what he's doing there when his head pops up around the door and his mouth rounds into a surprised, "Oh!" 

Pansy wants to ask to come in. She loses her nerve. "There's a cafe at the corner," she says instead. "I was wondering…"

Hermione agrees and they leave before Pansy even knows what they are doing, Draco's annoyed "I'll just wait here, shall I?" following in their wake. 

The sun sets on this brisk fall day. Pansy warms her hands against the mug of her cappuccino. Hermione sips her cafe au lait, closing her eyes briefly with a soft satisfied sigh.

Oh how Pansy aches.

They talk pleasantries. It's awkward and stilted and Pansy fumbles her words because they aren't the words she longs to say. Hermione puts on a brave, breezy face, but there's sadness here and there, in the lowering of her eyes, the corner of her lips. Pansy is warmed that she can still recognize it. Pansy drowns in shame for she knows she's the cause of it. 

Pansy reaches for her hand on the table. Hermione pulls it into her lap. 

"I need time," she says. Pansy nods because she doesn't know how to argue against that. She can't deny Hermione everything she took for herself. 

"You'd better get back before Draco eats all the curry." 

A smile briefly lifts Hermione's lips. Even with Pansy's heavy heart, it soothes.

She gets up, gathers her purse, leaves a few notes on the table. And then she stares at Pansy, something unreadable in the blink in her eyes. 

"Ask me to dinner," she says. 

"Tomorrow, eight? The place with all the pies?"

Hermione nods. A flicker of something. A smile. Pansy breathes deep and watches her leave.

 

**Heaven is betting on us**

There is a place in Hermione's heart that's still sore and fragile, waiting to be broken. But Pansy sends her flowers, a bouquet of purple lilacs, delivered to the ministry in all their glory, with a simple heart inscribed in the card and a request in Pansy's slanted and loopy script: _Can I see you tonight?_ It's been a week since their dinner at the place with all the pies, a week since Pansy walked her to her door and leaned in, and Hermione breathed in her scent. Their lips almost touched. But Hermione whispered, "Goodnight" and in a heartbeat, Pansy pulled away and the moment was lost to time. Hermione touches her lips now and wonders if she hadn't made a mistake. 

Pansy doesn't try again. At dinner she keeps her hands to herself and tells Hermione she's helping Dean Thomas set up an art gallery and how Harry had introduced them again, and did Hermione know that he and Draco were --? And Hermione cuts her off before she can say _fucking_ or _shagging_ or any other word that might make Hermione's thighs clench in want. 

"Does that mean you're staying? In London?" Hermione blurts out, and Pansy gives her an odd look, her mouth opening for a bite of pudding. And then her eyes soften. Her hand slips across the table and covers Hermione's own and Hermione lets her. She doesn't pull away as Pansy's fingers wrap around her palm and squeeze. 

"I'm here."

"For good?"

"For good."

Hermione's heart hammers hard. She's barely aware of the business of the cheque and Pansy shushing her notes away. Her feet carry her to the alley behind the restaurant, Pansy's hand once again slipped in hers. Out of sight, in shadows, Pansy pulls her wand free preparing to Apparate them both when Hermione whispers, "Wait."

She takes Pansy's face in the palm of her hands. They share a slow stuttered breath. Hermione doesn't close her eyes when she kisses her. 

 

**Tell me are you bold enough to reach for love?**

The first night Hermione invites her back to the flat they used to share with a dark and throaty, "Come inside?" Pansy makes her ask twice. It isn't because she's trying to play shy or hard to get or any of those silly games; it's because she's been waiting, yearning for days, weeks... _months_ , and wants to savor the moment. Wants to memorize Hermione's lowered lids, her kiss-bitten lips, the way her fingers circle Pansy's wrist, waiting to tug her through the threshold. 

They kiss again as soon as they step inside, stumbling through the darkened living room, the path to Hermione's bedroom like a dance Pansy learned long ago; her body knows the steps by heart. Pansy doesn't realize she's been keeping her hands in her self-imposed safe-zone, between the top curve of Hermione's hips and the barest brush of the bottom of her breasts, spread over her back or just beneath the hem of her blouse, palm against skin glistening with a hint of sweat and flush with heat. She doesn't realize until Hermione grabs her hand and pushes it between her thighs and says, "Please, Pansy. Touch me."

They climb into bed, take off as many clothes as they need to, but no more than that. Hermione's skirt on the floor, her blouse unbuttoned, bra shoved down, tits hanging free. Pansy's trousers are open and pushed to her hips along with her knickers, and Hermione sits atop her, legs spread in an invitation Pansy can't refuse. They find each other, that hot, trembling, wet place. Pansy curls her fingers inside as Hermione seeks Pansy's clit and they rock and shake and clutch at each other. Hermione's eyes bore into her, open and seeking and needy until she shimmies down, her head between Pansy's thighs. Pansy spreads her legs as far as her trousers will allow, slick fingers sinking into Hermione's curls, tugging at her hair. She thrusts into Hermione's tongue with abandon until Hermione swallows all of her, takes every bit of her into her mouth. 

After, Pansy takes Hermione from behind. Hermione, on hands and knees, Pansy's arm around her, fingers circling her clit, face pressed between Hermione's shoulder blades, lips against smooth skin. When Hermione trembles through her release, that surge of power shoots up Pansy's arm from where they're connected. They fall to the bed. They fall together. Shift to their backs and share a crooked pillow, their legs tangled. Hermione slips her hand into Pansy's, and they lie panting, sweat-soaked, in bliss. 

"Promise me something," Hermione says, throat raw, voice soft, eyes trained on the spiderwebbed crack in the ceiling. 

"Anything," Pansy says.

"If you run away again, take me with you."

They look at each other. Pansy cups Hermione's jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "Yes," she says. She makes the promise easily. But she knows it now, knows in her bones. Pansy is done running. 

 

**EPILOGUE  
We'll make a million memories - all incredible**

The bond around Pansy's wrist is invisible, tethered to the golden ring on her finger. It had been her idea, and Hermione had looked horrified when she'd suggested it. "I would never ask--" but when she understood that Pansy was set on it, she dove into her research and came up with the modifications. Hermione had insisted, the ring could come off at any time, just as she'd insisted on a year and a day, no more than that. "At least to start," Pansy had replied, but she knew more than likely, they would be renewing a year and a day for the rest of their lives. 

Their friends had thrown in together and bought out the pub for the post-ceremony reception, the pub where they'd met each other properly for the first time. Pansy gazes around the room and finds Hermione dancing wildly with Luna and Ginny, her skirts flying up to show a flash of the garter she wears around her thigh. In fine Muggle tradition, Pansy will be slipping that garter from her wife's thigh soon and tossing it to the crowd. Pansy sips her whisky, lets a sly grin spread across her damp lips, and at the perfect moment, she catches Hermione's eye. Hermione flushes beautifully, beckons her to the dance floor, but Pansy has other ideas. She takes Hermione's hand and leads her down a dark hall, through the back door, out into the alley. Stars blink down on them. A street lamp flickers. Hermione leans against the building, her face lit in a shaft of moonlight. 

Pansy leans in. She clasps Hermione's hand, holds it above her head. Their bond pulses together; the power of it makes Pansy quiver. 

"I love you, Mrs. Granger-Parkinson," Pansy says. 

"Prove it," Hermione replies with a smile. Her eyes play a million memories, stretched out in an endless future. Pansy kisses her, long and deep, and drinks in the promise of each one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to lq_traintracks for betaing this last chapter and helping me when I got stuck. <3 Sorry it took me a little longer to update/finish than I'd planned. Thanks for reading!


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